On the morning of Thursday, the day after Ashura, the twenty-fifth day of my confinement in solitary at Isfahan Central Prison, the warden opened the cell door. I asked, “Where to?” He replied, “Transfer to the forensic medical center.”
The only possibility that came to mind was that due to the chemical effects and the use of respiratory medications, either the intelligence ministry officials or the prison authorities had decided on my examination.
For the transfer to the forensic medical center, I was handcuffed and shackled. I was familiar with handcuffs, but it was my first time being shackled. That’s when I realized walking with shackles takes some skill. Steps needed to be shorter, with the feet spread about 20 centimeters apart. Getting in and out of the minibus with shackles was somewhat difficult.
The minibus carried two accused, two soldiers, an officer with the case file, and a driver. The sky was clear, blue, and sunny. Seeing the city, the people, and the streets was fascinating and pleasant for me.
The waiting hall at Isfahan’s forensic medical center was crowded after two days of holidays. A relatively large number of visitors were seated in the waiting room or moving between the rooms. The sound of the chain links attached to my feet and those of the other accused echoed in the hall. For moments, the gazes turned toward us. Probably, in their imagination, an accused escorted in this manner seemed like a murderer or an armed robber. Some looked away out of pity, while others quickly became indifferent, returning to their own worries.
Among them, the repeated glances of a little girl, about ten years old, were more intriguing to me. Her intelligence was evident in her eyes. She would observe me and come to see me, but when I looked at her, she’d avert her gaze as if to say, “I don’t care about what you’re doing.”
My details were registered in the center’s computer: first name, last name, father’s name, birth certificate number, age, national ID, address.
I waited about half an hour to meet the doctor. During this time, I befriended the soldier who was handcuffed to me, and we talked about various topics.
My turn arrived. Contrary to my expectations, the doctor waiting for me was a psychiatrist. A psychiatrist is someone who determines who is a bit crazy or whose rationality is sound.
The psychiatrist asked the soldier to wait outside the room for a few moments, leaving us alone.
First, he scrutinized me from head to toe. He asked, “For what crime are you in prison?” I replied, “I am a political prisoner.” He asked, “What is your charge?” I said, “Insulting the leadership.” He asked, “Did you insult the leadership?” I said, “Not an insult, I criticized.”
He asked, “For example, what kind of criticism?” I said, “Over the span of twenty letters, I addressed the leadership and published my letters in cyberspace, dealing with a single topic in each letter.”
He asked me to explain a bit about them. I said, “The computer is in front of you; you can search my name on Google right now. All my letters to the leadership are accessible for you there.”
He said, “Explain one of those letters yourself.” I responded, “For instance, in the eighteenth letter, I presented nine reasons, writing to him that this issue of lifelong leadership is neither beneficial to himself nor to society.” With this statement, he wrote something on my form, signed his note, and said, “I have no more to do with you; you can go.”
When I left the psychiatrist’s room, the soldier reattached himself to me with the handcuff and asked, “What did you do?” I said, “I told the truth, whatever it was.” He said, “You shouldn’t have said it. Now that this situation was created for you, you should have acted and talked like madmen and lunatics.” I said, “What benefit would that have brought me?” He replied, “You would have been freed, you would have been saved.”
I said, “Firstly, in that case, who knows if they wouldn’t have sent me straight from here to an asylum, and secondly, salvation is in truthfulness, not lying.”
With the soldier handcuffed to me and the chain echoes of the shackles breaking the silence of the waiting hall, we left the forensic building and started back toward Isfahan Central Prison in the minibus.
My poor accompanying soldier was tired and soon dozed off on the minibus seat. About twenty minutes later, in front of the prison door, I woke him.
Before getting off the minibus, the officer with the case file asked me, “How can I find your content in cyberspace?” I guided him.
Around two in the afternoon, I was back in the cell. Today was a good day for me. All the days in solitary are good. All the days of God are good if we appreciate them.